Back Home
by Ista
Summary: When Sam gets abducted by a murderous ghost, Dean drives day and night to find him. A short two-part fic with exhausted/hurt/protective Dean and possessed/comforting Sam. Takes place during season one.
1. Taste of Ash

**Back Home**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything related to _Supernatural._ Darn.

**Warning: **Dean has some anxiety and panic attacks in this one.

**A/N: **I'm brand new to this fandom—just started watching the show a few weeks ago! I was hooked right away, and I couldn't resist writing a quick little Sam and Dean fic, because they are just too beautiful. I wrote this while watching the first season, before we know the connection between Sam's visions and the yellow-eyed demon, so in this story his visions are not demon-related. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 1: Taste of Ash**

Dean was a one-track mind kind of guy.

And when his mind was focused on saving his younger brother, you could say that there wasn't anything in the world that would stop him.

He flicked the headlights on in the Impala in the growing dark and blinked back exhaustion. It had been three days since he had had more than a few hours of sleep at a time, stopping only to get gas and some money (via poker), or stop hitchhikers to ask them questions.

The questions had followed him from Arizona to Idaho, to Washington State, and they were always the same.

He would flash the small color photo of Sam, worn and faded now from being kept in his wallet. He would say, "Have you seen this man? He's with another hitchhiker. I'm trying to find him…I'm his brother, and he's run away from home."

Of course, he'd always leave out the part about Sam being captured by an evil ghost—the spirit of a murderous hitchhiker who makes lonely treks across the country, going on a pilgrimage to his home state each year and killing anyone who gets in his way.

Sam had it figured out—long before Dean suspected that the string of murders were caused by the paranormal. But by then it was too late; Sam was gone and didn't answer his cell.

Dean went on a spree—ravaging every road in Arizona, looking for his brother. His worst fear was finding Sam's body in a ditch somewhere, like the others.

He found more corpses, but he didn't find Sam.

Days passed and Dean followed the path the hitchhiker must have taken—using witness accounts and sightings of the two men. Always two. Which meant…

Dean shuddered.

Either Sammy was being held against his will without anyone else knowing, or else he was being controlled by the spirit, doing its bidding.

Dean hoped it was the former.

As the Impala cruised through the night, Dean glanced at his road map. According to the last witness he'd interviewed in eastern Washington, the two were headed west, towards the coast, and a small town…When Dean had called the city ordinance, he found that it also harbored the only cemetery within 60 miles.

Going back home.

Dean Winchester pushed the accelerator down further and sped through the night.

* * *

><p>Tires rolling over bumps on the median strip forced his eyes open, and Dean swerved, nearly colliding with an oncoming car. Shrill honking informed him that the driver of that vehicle was not pleased.<p>

Dean rubbed his eyes, cursing himself under his breath, and wishing that his brother was here. Ever since Sam had vanished, that slow creeping feeling of anxiety had begun to rise inside him.

First came the panic that his brother wasn't safe, and then came the guilt of not being able to protect him.

Then his eyes would start watering with the (smoke) emotion and he would feel something scratch at the back of his throat (ash). Coughing would sometimes clear it.

Although Dean had been witness to many of Sam's visions and nightmares, Sam did not know about his brother's panic attacks, and Dean wanted to keep it that way.

He pulled over at the next gas station. In the middle of nowhere at close to midnight, he was surprised it was still open. A single blue and beat-up Chevy truck was being filled up, and Dean wearily pulled in beside it, feeling the muscles creak in his back and legs as he shifted out of the car and pumped some gas.

When he went in the convenience store to pay for the gas, he passed two rough and weather-beaten men with scruffy faces and shifty eyes. He nodded at them warily, then paid for the gas at the counter.

"Is there a restroom?" he asked the man behind the counter.

"Round the back," the older man said, one of his eyes tuned to the mini television set he had on the counter in front of him. He was watching some kind of thriller.

Dean's only reason for stopping was to get gas and take a piss, but as he walked past the rows of snacks and chips his stomach began growling fiercely. When was the last time he had eaten? It frightened him that he couldn't remember.

As he stepped outside and went around the back towards the bathrooms, he decided that he would go back in the store and grab some food—just enough to make it to the coast…

That was the last thought that passed through his mind before he was jumped from behind and felt his forehead slam into the side of the building. Momentarily, everything went dark and then morphed into slow motion.

The two shifty-eyed characters with the Chevy began punching him until he was on the ground, rolling around in an attempt to evade their blows.

Through a haze of pain, Dean barely had the will to locate his car keys in his jacket pocket and grasp them tightly. When no one pried his hands loose he realized they weren't after his beloved Impala—they were after his wallet.

A few more forceful kicks, and one of them dug through his front pants pocket, pulling out the wallet. Dean was coughing—trying to get oxygen back in his deprived lungs after being punched in the stomach—and then his attackers were gone in a plume of dust.

_Sam._

Immediately, Dean's eyes began watering, and he roared hoarsely as he wiped the tears away. Damn his stupidity. It was his own foolishness that made him stop here and ignore the shifty-ass hicks. And now this little scuffle had wasted even more time.

Slowly, he felt for his wallet. It was definitely stolen. Luckily, he always kept his driver's license in his back pocket, so the only thing the crooks had gotten away with were a bunch of bad credit cards.

That thought, at least, made Dean smile.

On the other hand, they had taken all of his access to money. And unless Dean could get in on a late night poker match, he wouldn't be able to find any more immediately. Dean calculated roughly how many more miles he had left and let out a sigh or relief when he realized he had plenty of gas to make it to his destination.

Clutching his keys in one hand, Dean slowly got up from the ground, leaning on the side of the store for support. A wave of dizziness hit him as soon as he was fully standing, and he felt for the small lump above his right temple where he had been sent into the wall.

Carefully shuffling, Dean made his way to the restroom to take a leak, and he was able to assess further damage in front of the mirror. Blood slowly trickled from one corner of his mouth and there were dark patches on his face. Gently, he ran cold water from the faucet, cupping some in his palms and splashing his face. The water stung, but it woke him up a bit. Next, he felt his ribs and lifted up his shirt, wincing at the bruises decorating his abdomen.

When Dean looked up at himself again, dark circles under his eyes told him how tired he was. But he disregarded them, along with the tears that began to well up again. Briefly, Dean lowered his head until another bout of dizziness subsided.

He fumbled for a couple of bucks he forgot he had in one of his jacket pockets and stepped outside, heading for a soda machine. He selected a Coke and sipped it before going back to his car. The cool wave of sugar wiped the taste of ash from the back of his throat, and he ambled to the front of the store.

Another wave of dread hit him when he suspected the thugs might have damaged her, but no. _Thank God_. His baby was looking good.

"Better than me," he mumbled, taking another swig of the cola before getting into the Impala and roaring away.

* * *

><p>The next three hours passed by like a dream, but Dean didn't feel tired anymore. He almost felt like thanking the idiots in the Chevy for waking him up—reminding him that he had a job to do.<p>

Sam was still out there.

It was almost three in the morning when Dean began creeping the Impala up the steep dirt road that led to the cemetery on the hill. He had already checked and was glad of the fact that this particular cemetery had no living onsite groundskeeper and was quite isolated from its neighboring town. It would make the rescue easier when he wasn't constantly worried about being discovered.

At last the Impala made it up the path, sending two frightened rabbits out of its way as it approached the cemetery. The sight of gravestones was almost comforting to Dean as he slowly got out of the car. At least this was familiar territory.

In the darkness, Dean saw nothing unusual. He slid to the trunk, removing a small satchel in which he placed a shovel, salt, lighter fluid, a lighter, and a shotgun. He strapped a hunting knife to his left calf, under his pant leg, and closed the lid shut.

He had no idea what to expect, really. And even though he wanted to shout out Sam's name, he knew that could put his brother in even greater danger.

So Dean stalked. It was actually a skill he was quite good at—proud of, in fact. He roamed through the mist of the graveyard, searching for any movement in the shadows of the full moon's light. Nothing.

And then.

It was a white tree, large and unusual for growing separate from the other trees; it stood, like a silent observer, on the edge of the graveyard. There was something—a figure sitting up against it. And there was another body—lying motionless on the ground.

_Sam!_

Dean sprinted to the tree, catching his breath and fighting back light-headedness when he realized that Sam was sitting against the tree—tied to it. The figure lying close to him was an older man with a grey beard. Blood ran down his face from a gaping hole in his head. _The evil hitchhiker's host body, _Dean thought. _No more._ The gun was next to him, and Dean left it alone. It wouldn't be too smart to leave his fingerprints on the murder weapon. When Dean saw the coast was clear, he instantly knelt beside his brother.

"Sam!" he said gently, taking his shoulders.

His brother's eyes were closed, and his face was as pale as the moon, but he appeared unharmed.

_Then why won't he wake up?_

"Sam!" Dean shook him slightly, speaking a bit louder. "Sam, it's me!"

He was probably just temporarily knocked out. Dean hoped there was nothing else wrong with him. Hastily, he took out his knife and cut the ropes binding Sam's hands, as well as the ones around his waist. He felt for Sam's pulse and was satisfied when the beat was steady and strong.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," he said. "There's one more thing I gotta do."

Dean stood up, once more surveying the scene. It was possible that the spirit had possessed the body of the bearded man to make its trek across the country and back home. But then why kill him?

Suicide. The ghost had originally died by killing himself, and it was repeating the process every year. The explanation seemed plausible to Dean.

But then why did it kidnap Sam? Something didn't fit.

Still, he had a job to do. There was a pretty good chance that the spirit of the hitchhiker would continue its deadly pursuits every year unless its remains were properly destroyed.

But where was this guy buried?

Dean noted that the bearded man had died on the grave of a woman. So this wasn't the right spot to dig. Unless…

Dean looked at the white tree across from the woman's grave and pulled out his shovel with a slight grunt. He began to dig and churn up the earth right in front of Sam, in front of the tree. Dean had to hand it to the spirit. If his hunch was correct, the ghost had picked the most majestic (and unofficial) grave marker in the whole cemetery.

The oldest Winchester worked for fifteen minutes until sweat began to roll down his back. He paused, feeling dizzy again, but willed himself to keep working. The job had to get done.

At last, he struck bone. Dean carefully picked out the skeleton of the hitchhiker, wiping the bones off with his sleeve, making sure he wasn't missing any. Rifling through his bag, he removed the salt, lighter, and fluid. He hastily salted the bones, purifying them, and then he poured lighter fluid over the top of them. The last step was—

"Nice work."

Dean nearly jumped three feet in the air, stifling a cry. He whipped around to find Sam leaning over him, a wide grin on his face.

"Jesus Christ!" His exclamation was Dean's way of expressing his affection and relief that his little brother was okay. "You almost scared me to death."

Sam let out a small chuckle.

Dean eyed him, an equal mix of worry and suspicion. "You all right? You were kinda comatose there a few minutes ago."

"I was just waiting…"

"Waiting?" Dean muttered, grabbing his lighter. "For what?"

"To do this."

Dean turned back around, but it was too late. Sam lunged forward with Dean's hunting knife, slashing him in the arm, and causing Dean to drop the lighter.

Dean cried out, falling over and then scrambling for the lighter, but his brother blocked his way, towering over him, a decidedly malicious gleam in his eyes.

"Sammy," mumbled Dean, his mouth suddenly dry. "This isn't you. It's the ghost. Try to hear my voice. Break through its control."

"Not going to happen," cackled Sam. "He's been under my power since Arizona. His unique abilities make him an…invigorating host."

"You son of a bitch! If you hurt him—"

"Oh, I'm going to kill him," crooned the thing speaking through Sam. "After I kill you. It's what I do to all the people who stand in the way of my journey home. And aren't all lives a journey home? A journey to death?"

"I don't get it," said Dean, inching closer to the lighter some five feet away that the ghost had forgotten about. "Why us? Why Sam?"

"I have a unique gift to reach into my hosts' minds. When I went into Sam's mind, I found you, and I knew that you would stop at nothing to find him, and destroy me."

"That's what I still don't understand," repeated Dean, inching closer. "Why pick ghost hunters?"

"Well, I'd thought about moving for a while, you see. Moving my bones to a new location, just to be safe. And you did all the dirty work for me." With that, Sam leaned in closer, grinning. "Thank you."

Before Dean had time to flinch, the spirit began pummeling him, blow after blow to his face and sides. Dean cried out, feeling blood run from his already-cut lip and battered nose. He doubled over when the spirit attacked his abdomen, adding fresh bruises to the ones that had occurred only hours ago. Through the beating, Dean couldn't make himself fight back. He wouldn't do anything to hurt his brother's body. But he also wouldn't let Sam be killed.

Another blow to his head, and Dean's vision started fading to grey. He could see the lighter, but he just couldn't reach it.

And then a miracle happened. The spirit dragged Dean to his feet and flung him backwards.

Dean landed right on top of the lighter.

Winded, the oldest Winchester held the lighter behind his back while the ghost rummaged through Dean's satchel. Sam pulled out the shotgun.

"So nice of you to bring this," said Sam in a voice that was his and yet completely different at the same time. "It's been fun, but it's time for you to become a ghost yourself."

Dean frantically tried to figure out a way of distracting the ghost before the gun went off. He ripped a piece of his shirt off in the hopes that he would have a few seconds to light it on fire and toss it into the grave. But Sam was quickly advancing on him… There was no possible way…

Dean took a small breath, blinking blood from his eyes, prepared for whatever happened.

"Welcome to your new grave," said the spirit, aiming the shotgun.

Dean closed his eyes…

…and he heard Sam scream.

He opened them, and the ghost was on its knees, hands clutched to his head, writhing in pain, either from some kind of vision or interference from Sam, or both. He had dropped the shotgun. Dean sprang to his feet and hovered over the grave.

"Nah," he said, "I think I'll let you keep it."

In one simple gesture, Dean lit the piece of torn shirt on fire and tossed it into the grave. The bones immediately caught on fire and smoke filled the air.

The spirit growled viciously, and Sam fell limply from his knees to collapse upon the ground, a vapor like mist seeping out of his body to evaporate in the night air.

As the bones smoldered, Dean caught his breath and quickly dashed to his brother's side.

"Sammy?" he panted. "You okay?"

Sam's eyelids fluttered open, as if from a deep sleep, and his eyes circled around dizzily.

"Dean? What happened?"

The oldest brother wanted to say that he was saving Sam's sorry ass _again_ from a fate worse than death, blah blah blah, but Dean was too tired, and he couldn't hide his relief at seeing Sam alive and unharmed.

"You tried to kill me. Again. When you were possessed. Again. But you must have stopped the spirit somehow. Gave me time to roast his bones…" Dean noticed Sam's eyelids drooping again. "I'll explain later." Right now, Dean needed to get his little brother and himself as far away from the dead guy and barbecued bones as possible. They would drive until dawn at least, heading south. Just to be safe.

Dean helped Sam stand up and then assisted him the rest of the way to the car. Sam's legs were wobbly, but his face was getting back some color.

As Dean gently set Sam in the front passenger seat of the Impala, Sam grabbed his jacket collar. Dean stopped, surprised at the gesture. He was even more shocked when he concentrated on Sam's eyes—wide and terrified, as if he was a child again.

"It got inside my mind," he said, "and the ghost—"

"Sssh," Dean soothed, buckling his brother in securely. "You're just tired. Get some rest on the way."

He was about to walk back to the trunk and put the satchel away when Sam murmured, "I'm cold."

Dean pulled a fleece blanket from the back seat and covered his younger brother with it, tucking it in around his shoulders and under his legs like he did when he was little. And to his greatest amazement, Sam never protested once.

"Is that all right, Sammy?" he asked gently.

Sam nodded. "Thanks."

Dean closed the passenger door and tilted his head as if he had just been smacked in the face. _Sam _must_ be tired if he doesn't mind me calling him "Sammy."_

He put the tools back in the trunk and then felt his legs buckling. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, willing himself not to lose it. Not yet. Not when they were still on the run and Sam was so vulnerable.

The smell of burning bones caused Dean to cough and he tasted the ash in the back of his throat again, a taste which had briefly gone away while he was saving Sam in the cemetery. His breathing hitched, and Dean felt a sweet syrupy taste in the back of his throat.

_Not now, dammit!_

Dean slammed the trunk closed and decided that he would keep driving as long as it took for Sam to recover.

When Dean got in the driver's seat, his brother's mouth was partially open, fast asleep beside him.

* * *

><p>All it took was five seconds.<p>

Dean closed his eyes, and the Impala swerved to the right, going off the road. At the first unusual jostle, Sam's eyes snapped open, and he grabbed the wheel, but it was too late. The car lost traction on the gravel and sharply dropped into the ditch. As they fell and the car began to roll, Sam remembered screaming, and Dean was mumbling the same words over and over again:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry, Sam._


	2. Nightmares

**Back Home**

**Warning: **Dean has some anxiety and panic attacks in this one.

**Chapter 2: Nightmares**

Sam jerked awake from the nightmare. He knew it had been a vision from the slight headache he always experienced before, during, and afterwards. At first, he was disoriented, but the familiar confines of the car settled him, and he was wrapped in a warm blanket.

_Dean gave me the blanket. In the cemetery. _

And it all came back to him.

The hitchhiker—being kidnapped and possessed. He couldn't quite remember all that had transpired while he was under the ghost's influence, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. There was the sizzling heat of the sun, his arms peeling with sunburn. There was car, after car, after car. Sometimes the people who stopped were nice. Sometimes they weren't. And when they weren't… There was always the flash of a knife or a gun leading to a body. Bodies tossed into ditches. There were so many roads and so many ditches on their way to Washington; Sam was dizzy with the thought.

The youngest Winchester stretched as the first rays of morning shone in the east, shooting faintly across the sky in orange and yellow hues.

Then he closed his eyes and remembered the dream.

"Dean!" Sam shot up in his seat.

Next to him, his Dean's eyes were half-lidded and drooping. The half of his face that Sam could see was bruised and bloodied—enough to make Sam wince. And it took Dean half a second too long to acknowledge Sam's exclamation.

"Sammy," he mumbled, weariness thick in his voice "You're awake."

"Dean—are you all right? Where are we?"

"Driving south in Washington… or maybe Oregon. I'm not sure…"

Alarm bells were going off in Sam's head. His brother sounded confused. "How long have you been driving?"

"About three days," said Dean, and then he quickly corrected himself. "Three hours."

That took the cake. "Dean, pull over. I'm going to drive."

"No need, Sammy," said Dean through a gaping yawn. "We're almost at a motel, I reckon… Bound to be one up ahead."

Sam tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Look, I had a vision, okay? In my dream, you fell asleep at the wheel and we both ended up dead. I'm not letting you drive any farther."

Dean's eyes were shiny with hesitation. "But you've just been through a lot. I'm going to take care of you."

_My hero_, Sam thought with a sigh.

"I feel fine," Sam snapped in a reply, and he wasn't lying. Since waking up, he felt refreshed and (aside from being ravenous and remembering only bits and pieces of the past three days) he felt wide-awake.

More gently, Sam said, "Pull over."

Dean reluctantly followed his little brother's command, and Sam softly sighed.

More shards of brilliant light were bursting out of the sky when Sam got out of the car, stretching his legs and hearing joints pop with satisfaction. He took a deep breath and admired the fields of farms spread out all around them, a dense forest of fir trees in the distance.

"This is beautiful, isn't it? I mean, kinda gets you in the mood for some cherry pie and hot coffee."

When Dean didn't reply, Sam looked over and noticed that his brother was nowhere in sight.

"Dean?" He bent down and looked inside the car, but he wasn't there either. Sam's heartbeat quickened when he ran around to the other side and saw Dean sprawled on the ground, his back against the front tire.

"Dean!"

His brother's eyes were half-open like before, and for the first time, Sam realized that Dean was more hurt than he had originally thought. Aside from the sight of his face smashed in and covered with dried blood, Dean was hunched over as if to hide other injuries. Examining his right arm, Sam spied a gash that had cut through his jacket—a wound that was still bleeding, trickling onto the dirt beneath him.

"Dean, what happened to you?" Sam asked, shocked, iciness in the pit of his stomach.

"Two guys," rasped Dean, his eyes opening and closing as if he was trying to hang onto consciousness. "Mugged me. Before I got to you."

"And this?" Sam tugged gently at his wounded arm.

Dean pointed a shaky finger back at his brother.

"Oh." Sam felt a burning hatred inside himself for allowing the ghost to possess him and hurt Dean in the process. Guilt washed over him, and he swallowed thickly.

As if Dean knew what he was feeling, he shook his head. "Don't blame yourself… I prob'ly deserved it…"

"Just like you deserved to not sleep or eat for three days?"

Sam's scolding and intended hyperbole must have struck a note of truth, because Dean's eyes shot open, and he feigned sweet innocence.

Sam sighed. "Just great. When are you going to stop with the whole masochistic self-sacrifice thing?"

Dean tried to wink, but the gesture ended up looking like a lazy eye. "I'll stop when you do, Sammy."

Gently, Sam hoisted his brother up, one hand underneath Dean's armpit. Dean wavered and then winced so dramatically that Sam propped him against the trunk and began to remove his brother's jacket.

"Sam…" mumbled Dean weakly. "Stop…No need…"

"What else are you hiding?" Sam said scornfully, and then he lifted up Dean's torn shirt. "_Jesus."_

Brown, purple, and green bruises covered the majority of Dean's abdomen.

Sam swallowed thickly, forcing his guilt and anger at himself back down. He looked away briefly to compose himself before turning back. Although his older brother recoiled from his touch, Sam had to make sure there were no broken bones.

"Leave-it," slurred Dean, flinching again.

"Stop being a two year-old," said Sam evenly, and when he was finally satisfied that nothing was broken, Sam gingerly helped Dean into the car. Next, he went to the trunk and got out the first aid kit, taking it to the passenger seat and wrapping a bandage around Dean's injured arm after putting anti-bacterial ointment on it.

When Sam got in the driver's seat, he cringed when he felt something slick on his right side. It was blood. Dean was _not_ going to be happy about that.

* * *

><p>Sam didn't have to drive more than ten miles before they hit upon a cheap motel outside of Salem, Oregon. Dean was slumped against the passenger door, so deeply asleep that he wasn't even snoring.<p>

Sam's conscience continued to burn seeing Dean so hurt—mostly because of his own inability to control himself from the ghost's power. The past three days' events were strange memories, some awash in reality, others pure dreams. And he had a difficult time remembering the cemetery at all. Sam seemed to recall Dean saying something about Sam _stopping_ the ghost from killing him… but none of that was clear. All Sam could remember was pain shooting through his temples before waking up to find Dean at his side.

After paying for a room (thank God he still had _his_ wallet) Sam went back to the car. His stomach was growling something fierce now, and his throat was scratchy and dry. Dean hadn't had anything in the car except a half-drunk, slightly stale soda. The first priority was to get both of them some food.

Dean was still asleep when Sam opened the passenger door, bracing his older brother back lest he fall out of the car. Limply, Dean slid sideways and Sam caught him, easing him upright just as his eyes blinked blearily open.

Although his older brother said nothing, Sam knew he was confused. And he looked like a character out of a B horror movie. Sam just wanted to get his brother inside before anyone saw him and called an ambulance.

"I've got us a room," said Sam, trying to sound cheerful even though his stomach turned at the sight of Dean's battered face. "Let's get you to bed."

There was no quip, no smartass remark that followed, and the lack of any joke from Dean scared Sam the most. It meant that his brother was really out of it—more than he'd ever seen him before.

Sam practically lifted Dean out of the car, half-dragging him the rest of the way to room No. 4 (first floor, thankfully). Dean was quiet all the way to the door, leaning against the wall while Sam fumbled with the key card. He didn't speak until Sam sat him gently on the bed closest to the door and was about to step outside.

"Where are you going?"

The question was clear and yet housed so many levels of fear and panic that Sam almost gasped. He turned around.

"Just gonna get some breakfast for _my hero_, jerkface. If I'm hungry, then you must be _starving_."

Dean just stared blankly back at him, his eyes glassy. Sam didn't like it one bit.

"Be back before you can say 'Blue Oyster Cult!'"

Sam even went for a smile that time, but Dean didn't bite, and Sam was almost grateful to close the door behind him and not have to face those eyes again.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was a nearby sub shop where Sam bought the largest sandwich he could order for himself, and Dean's favorite—a pastrami on rye. On his way back, he also couldn't resist pulling over and picking up some tea and donuts. He resisted buying coffee for Dean—as much as Sam knew his brother loved it. Sam had a suspicion that Dean had been subsisting far too much on caffeine—and only caffeine—for the past few days.<p>

He parked the Impala back at the motel and balanced the bags of food and his travel mug of tea in his hands.

Then he heard the screams coming from No. 4.

And he dropped the tea.

Sam began running to the door. Along the row of rooms, folks who had been in the process of checking out began to gather around No. 4.

"It's okay," Sam said frantically, flashing a sick smile. "It's just my brother. He has some problems, and—"

Well, it wasn't _quite_ a lie, and the small crowd reluctantly dispersed.

But the screams continued.

Sam silently cursed himself and was finally able to open the door, tossing the bags of food on a table before going to Dean, who was flailing around in his bed.

"No!" he shouted, eyes tightly closed.

"Dean!" Sam shouted back, shaking him roughly. "Wake up!"

Instantly, Dean's eyes opened, and they flashed left to right, disoriented.

"Sam?"

"It's all right. You just had a nightmare. Try to relax."

But Dean's breathing wasn't slowing down, and his eyes began tearing up, small clear streams sliding down his cheeks.

"We gotta…get out…of here…Sam."

"What?" Sam's inner alarm bells were going off. "What are you talking about?"

Now Dean started coughing roughly, whole hacks that wracked his weak body. Sam propped him up against some pillows, holding him steady.

Dean rasped, "There's a…fire…smoke…gotta…leave…now."

Sam was shocked. "Dean, there's no fire. Calm down!"

But Dean's breathing only got more ragged, his eyes red and puffy as tears continued to leak down his face, his coughing turning harsh and ugly.

"Out—" Dean choked. "Outside!"

At last, Sam relented and helped his brother out of the small motel room, stopping just outside its threshold.

"There," he said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his own voice. "Better?"

Dean coughed a few more times before gasping, "Yes…no."

He fell back against the wall, and Sam caught his brother around the waist, sliding with him to the paved ground. Dean wasn't coughing anymore, but his breathing worsened, now bursting out in short gasps.

Sam felt like he had been pulled into a very private part of Dean, and he was almost afraid to acknowledge or understand it. His own nightmares had always been shared and discussed, and Dean was always quick to comfort and reassure him. He never knew Dean's dreams could affect him so drastically, but the subject of the nightmares was already plain to Sam.

Sam had experienced two significant fires in his life, but there would only ever be _one_ fire to Dean.

"Hey!" said Sam, grasping Dean's arm. "Hey, take it easy! Slow your breathing."

But Dean had already reached the hyperventilation stage. If he continued, he might pass out.

Why _was he doing this? Why? Why?_

And then it clicked in Sam's mind.

His disappearance. Dean trying to save him. The fire. Dean had only been four years old when he had carried Sam out of their burning house.

Maybe with this whole hitchhiker thing, Dean had thought he had lost Sam forever.

"Dean!" said Sam, forcing his voice to become calmer. "I'm _okay_. Listen to me. I'm right _here_, and I'm not going _anywhere_. You saved me. Listen to me. You _saved_ me. Breathe. _Breathe_, Dean."

And, slowly, Dean's breathing eased and hitched a few times before evening out.

Sam kept his arm on his brother's shoulder, pressing gently down. And then the abrupt breathing stopped, and Dean sagged against the wall, his eyes half-closed, looking utterly spent.

The suppressed guilt that had been building up inside of Sam all this time decided to let loose at this moment. Sam tried to stop his tears, but he was too angry at himself to follow through.

As Sam folded in two, Dean leaned over, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. He expression flashed from puzzlement to worry in a millisecond.

"Sam, what's wrong? Tell me."

Sam slammed his hand into the wall behind him, ashamed that he was acting this way after all that Dean had just been through, but the rage didn't diminish. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You went through hell on your own to get me back, and then I almost killed you."

Dean immediately tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder and placed his other hand under his brother's chin, tilting it upwards so that Sam was staring directly at him. The gesture surprised Sam, and he temporarily stopped crying.

"Listen, that ghost tried to kill _both_ of us. And it wasn't your _fault._ Say it with me: _It wasn't my fault."_

Sam's brows furrowed, looking into Dean's exhausted half-crazed eyes, and then the younger Winchester started making short wheezing noises. Dean tilted his head to one side, trying to figure out what was wrong with his younger brother, but then he realized that Sam wasn't in pain—he was laughing. The chuckles began quietly but soon crescendoed into all-out mirth that verged on maniacal, draining excess tears from his eyes and making his face turn bright red.

Dean grumbled with disgust. "I don't even want to _know_ what's so funny."

Sam forced a palm over his own mouth to try and stop the laughter, but it continued rolling out of him. His words were clipped with hilarity when he finally managed to get them out. "I…just…imagined you…as a…psychologist. And…this is a …therapy session! You…wearing… black…professor glasses."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam and gave him a look that plainly asked: _Crazy much?_ This was followed by a scowl.

"C'mon, Dean. Let's use 'I statements' and tell each other about our feelings!"

Dean was about to call Sam a "little bitch," but his vision was beginning to dim around the edges, beckoning him towards sleep.

"Hey," whispered Sam, and Dean jerked upright. His younger brother had stopped chuckling, and he had wiped his eyes dry. The morning was crisp but was mellowing into a fine day, with the scent of freshly-cut grass in the air.

"Yeah?"

"This reminds me of that one time in Detroit."

Dean responded with an eye-roll. "I can remember a _lot_ of times in Detroit, Sam."

"That morning after we spent the night with those two vampires?"

The memory slid into his mind, and Dean genuinely smiled for the first time in three days. Sam felt a pang of satisfaction, as if getting his brother show happiness was his personal achievement.

"They were such a trip!" exclaimed Dean, rifling a bloody hand through his hair. "The chick…"

"She was more than a 'chick,'" Sam argued. "She was _literary."_

"And the guy… with his stories about the '60's rock scene… It was inspiring."

Sam couldn't help but laugh at the memory too. Brief images flashed through his mind of cruising in the Impala with the vampire couple in the back, going on a midnight tour of Detroit, checking out abandoned bar scenes where the music was hypnotic and eternal. Dean looking happier than he had in months. Staying up all night before dropping the vampires off and heading back to the motel. Sam had insisted on staying up to watch the sunrise, and they had ended up sitting outside their room, collapsed on the ground, partly-drunk, half-awake, and giggling.

"Those were the ones we let go," Sam whispered.

Dean stirred and said sleepily, "Well, they were decent enough people. Didn't want to kill anybody."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "If only every hunt turned out like that one."

"Uh huh," Dean said, resting his head back in exhaustion.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Thanks for saving me."

There was a brief pause. "No problem. Sorry for wiggin' out on you."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, well, sorry for trying to kill you…"

Dean yawned ferociously. "'Sno problem."

The yawn woke Sam from his idleness, and he knew that Dean needed some rest—ideally, about fifteen hours of it.

"Let's eat something," Sam said.

Dean was more or less back to normal, but he was haggard and desperately needed a shower. Tear streaks tracked clean lines down his filthy face, and there was dried and crusted blood on the corner of his lip, down his nostrils, and by his right temple where a nasty welt had begun swelling.

"C'mon." Sam pulled Dean upright and walked him back inside, sitting him at the table and the scattered bags of food. He brought out some water bottles and took out Dean's sandwich, unwrapping it.

"Look," he said, gesturing toward the pastrami on rye. "Your favorite."

Dean nodded weakly, and Sam went to draw a bath, preparing the towels and soap. When he came back five minutes later, Dean hadn't touched his food.

"Eat," Sam commanded, and his brother slowly complied, but Sam could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Exhaustion was slowly taking over.

"Two more bites," said Sam, and then he made Dean drink some water, because the man had to be seriously dehydrated. Next, he led him to the bathroom and began peeling off his brother's jacket. When Dean realized what Sam was doing, he put his hands up defensively.

"I can do it," he said grumpily.

"Show me," said Sam, folding his arms like a supreme skeptic.

Dean attempted to remove his t-shirt, but ended getting it stuck around his neck, and thrashed about helplessly. Sam eventually intervened after a few amused seconds of watching his brother, and Dean allowed him (albeit crabbily) to help remove the rest of his clothing, save for his boxers.

It was horrible to see Dean like this—thin and covered with bruises and dried blood. Sam carefully unwrapped the bandage on his arm, revealing the ugly gash and splashing it with water. Halfway through the bath, Dean reverted back to zombie mode, and Sam moved his brothers' limbs to scrub him down like one would position a mannequin.

Blood washed easily enough from his body with the encouragement of warm water. Sam helped Dean out of the bathtub and gently dried him off. Then Sam handed Dean a fresh change of clothes from his own bag because all of Dean's were dirty.

"Let me know when you're done," said Sam and closed the door to respect his brother's privacy. Then he went to the table and wolfed down half his sub sandwich in two bites. It was delicious and temporarily ceased the maddening growl in his stomach.

Five minutes passed, and Sam started to get worried. He knocked tentatively on the door.

"All right in there?" Sam called softly.

When there was no response, Sam quickly opened the bathroom door to find Dean sprawled on the floor, one arm clinging to the side of the toilet, the other grasping the tub. There was a half-apologetic, half-dazed expression on Dean's face.

"Oops?" he said.

At least, Dean had managed to get his clean boxers on.

Sam wanted to kick himself for leaving his brother alone, as fatigued as he was. He could have fallen and aggravated his already serious injuries into even worse ones.

"It's all right," Sam cooed. Normally, Dean would have shrugged off any help, but this time he was too worn out to protest. Sam slid strong arms underneath Dean's, edging in behind him to bend down and gently lift him to his feet. They slowly shuffled together back to Dean's designated bed, and Sam sat him on it. Dean's shoulders were slumped and his eyes were half-closed.

"Now, these might be a little big, but they're comfortable," Sam spoke soothingly as he helped his older brother into one of his long-sleeved shirts and pair of sweat pants.

Dean was silent through the whole ordeal until Sam was finished; then he piped up.

"Can I sleep now?"

Sam was a bit amused at his brother's innocent question.

"Sure, Dean."

"Oh, good," Dean said and promptly fell back on the bed.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Sam murmured and helped Dean lie back, peeling the bed covers away and placing them over his body, tucking in the edges the way _he_ liked them tucked in.

Next, Sam knew he had to take care of Dean's arm. He went to the table and scarfed down the rest of his sandwich, then grabbed the medical kit and began rummaging through its materials.

He rolled up the loose sleeve on Dean's right arm, revealing the long deep gash curling up almost the entire length, from his forearm to his bicep. He cringed when he saw that it was still bleeding; the soap and water had probably destroyed previous clots that had formed.

Sam wiped the area with disinfectant, keeping an eye on Dean's sleeping form. The depth of the cut required some stitches. Sam hated to wake his brother, but there was no other way around it.

"Dean," he mumbled gently. "Dean!"

But his brother didn't stir.

Sam had to shake Dean hard before the other man finally opened his eyes blearily.

"Yeah?" he muttered.

"Gotta stitch you up," said Sam.

"Mmmph," replied Dean.

Sam took his answer as a "yes" and began stitching. Dean flinched slightly but was still afterward. The second stitch was almost finished when Sam heard snoring. He looked up in astonishment to find Dean fast asleep again.

"I don't believe it," he said out loud.

Sam was done patching up Dean within minutes, placing another bandage over his arm and spreading ointment on various cuts on his brother's face.

Finally, Sam was satisfied with Dean's condition, and he went out again to get some fresh air and more tea. On his walk back, it began to rain, and Sam dashed back to the motel room to find Dean still asleep.

Sam spent the rest of the dreary day inside, scouring through his father's journal, typing up their latest encounter, cleaning guns, and sharpening knives. They were running a bit low on salt, and he added it to the grocery list, then went out again for more food.

Dean was still asleep by that evening while Sam made a microwave dinner and watched TV at a low volume. Sam drifted off to some old show around 8:00, exhausted from the day's overwhelming events.

* * *

><p>He awoke with a start the next morning to find Dean's bed empty. Panicking slightly, he was about to leap out of bed and go on an official big brother hunt when the door to their motel room opened and Dean appeared, still pale but decidedly more alert. The bruises still stood out on his face, but they had faded slightly.<p>

"Man, I woke up to infomercials, a pounding headache… and I was wearing _your_ clothes." Dean sighed.

"Winchesters gone wild?" Sam said with a laugh.

"Well, it _is_ a Monday, right?"

Sam wiped sleep out of his eyes and looked at Dean warily. "Y'all right?"

Dean took a deep breath. "I think so. Thanks."

Sam was slightly surprised. No bravado from his big brother. It made him worry slightly, until Dean produced a bag from his jacket.

"Donut?"

"Thanks," said Sam, moving sleepily to reach in the bag for a maple bar.

Dean sat gingerly at the table and grinned. It was that beaming sure-of-himself attitude that made Sam finally sigh in relief. Dean was going to be okay.

"You look happier than heck, bro," Sam said through a mouthful of donut. "Enlighten me as to what's going on."

"While you were catching up on your beauty sleep, I found our next hunt."

Sam leaned back in bed, finishing his maple bar. "Great. I was only recently possessed, and you want to go traipsing off across the country again?"

Dean smirked. "This one's only an hour away, and it's on the coast. Surf's up, dude."

Sam groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, while at the same time smiling with satisfaction. Dean was back.

An icy memory suddenly washed over him as he removed the blankets over his head, and Sam shivered without realizing it.

"Sam?"

He looked up in confusion at Dean, still lost in the memory.

Dean sat down on the bed beside him, concern flashing across his features. "What's wrong?"

Sam struggled to put the memory into words. "The hitch hiker was so focused on going _home_. He had almost convinced me that that cemetery _was_ home. But when I saw you there, I realized that everything he told me was wrong."

"Because we don't have a home?" Dean muttered gruffly and shifted on the bed. "Because ours burned up?"

"No," said Sam. "No, because when I'm with you, I _am_ home. Wherever we go. Whether it's back in Kansas, or Arizona, or Michigan, or Washington, or here… We have each other. And that's what made me stop the ghost before he…"

Dean's mouth was slightly open in awe before he intentionally closed it and flashed a corny smile instead. "Just couldn't live without me, Sammy?"

Sam averted his eyes from Dean's gaze before responding. He knew that Dean would tease him, but he didn't care. "No, I can't."

Dean's eyes widened, and there were a few brief seconds of recognition before he cleared his throat awkwardly and sharply smacked Sam on the arm.

"C'mon, man. What have I told you time and time again?"

Sam beamed.

"No chick flick moments!" they shouted simultaneously.

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Well, it got kinda rambly there at the end….apologies. The memory of Sam and Dean meeting the "vampire couple" was a reference to _Only Lovers Left Alive_. Some great cross-over possibilities there. This was my first Supernatural fic—I'm currently halfway through the second season, and I'm in love! As a huge X-Files fan, I'm constantly amused by all the Mulder and Scully references on the show. This story hints at another Sam and Dean adventure, which I've started rough drafting, if anyone's interested. Anyways, thank you all so much for reading, and let me know how I did!


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